09/06.

(sometimes I stumble upon things I've written not so long ago.)

Thinking of bags which memory snatches reminds me of ZA, where you didn't want to carry your memories (photos?) with you, someone was always around the next corner, back pressed against the wall waiting to take 'things that mattered' to me or to others; so that I would clutch them tightly, in my hand, against my chest, down my shirt. But near the end we realised that it's really just the memories (that we hope can't be taken away) and those shouldn't be snatched. Or that memory takes certain moments and won't let them leave me alone, so that we're struggling with what's necessary/required and what seems more realistic. These images are always masked, faces distorted, missing (?), forgotten...self preservation? It's somewhat welcome, this person waiting to steal the things which tie me to places...places where I feel like I'm stuck with the burden of all my physical surroundings; the freedom in that lightness teaches me many lessons.